


The Boarding House AU

by ShardsofArendelle



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 05:26:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14277879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShardsofArendelle/pseuds/ShardsofArendelle
Summary: Shardsverse AU. After escaping a death sentence, and forced to come to terms with the idea that she can never return to Arendelle nor see Anna again, Elsa finds herself in the unexpected position of sharing a room with a poverty-stricken young scholar of magic…





	1. Elsa & Alarik

**Author's Note:**

> This spun off from a story I wrote for Frozen What-If Week back in 2015. In the story, Hans captures Elsa before she strikes Anna with her magic. As a result, Elsa is imprisoned, while Anna is coerced into marrying Hans. Anna, however, is determined to find a way to save her sister - and after a six-month imprisonment, Elsa is able to escape, though she and Anna never reconcile. Hans knows Anna was likely involved, but he also tells the kingdom that Elsa has died; they each have a secret that allows a measure of control over one another. 
> 
> Elsa, meanwhile... well, this is the story of what happened to Elsa.

Threadbare clothes. Green eyes. Tousled auburn hair.  
  
“Yes,” she said. “I’m Elsa.”  
  
“I’m Alarik,” he said. “Your sister wrote to me. Let’s get you somewhere safe, all right?”

* * *

It was a huge port city, far larger than Arendelle’s capitol, and thus, of course, larger than anywhere she had ever been. She shied away from clusters of people, from shouts and cries and loud laughter; she knew it wasn’t the same, this wasn’t her coronation night… but she was still skittish, magic barely contained, her gloved palms icy. The city smelled – fish and rot and worse. 

She wanted to go home.  
  
Not back to the Arendelle she had left – to the one that seemed now sometimes to never have existed. The one where she was eight years old, and still thought of herself as human. It was a selfish desire, but she wanted it regardless.   
  
“There’s a man Papa used to write to,” Anna had said – her voice low and urgent, as if she feared now, as she never had before, being caught here. “He signed the letters A.G.”  
  
Elsa nodded – she knew those letters. There were a lot of them.   
  
“There’s only one person with those initials publishing on magic consistently – his name is Alarik Geatland.” She paused and took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving Elsa’s. “I wrote to him, in care of the last journal I could get. And he wrote back.”  
  
Elsa edged away – just a little – as if it might be possible to escape Anna’s words. The chains clinked, and she bit her lip.   
  
“Elsa… it’s less than two weeks. And…” A tear escaped – just one, tracing a line around and down the swell of Anna’s cheek. “Hans wants… he wants  _me_  to do it.”  
  
“ _What?_ ”  
  
“Poison,” Anna said – her voice all but inaudible. Then she looked up, eyes blazing. “Elsa, you have to go. This man – Alarik Geatland – says he’ll help you hide! I know…” Her voice broke. “I know you don’t love me, but I still love you. I’ve always loved you, Elsa. So please – please – don’t make me… make me…”  
  
And all Elsa wanted, what she would have gone happily to her execution to do, was to hold her sister – hold her, and never let go.   
  
But she couldn’t.  
  
Ice had crawled up the manacles…   
  
“Watch out!” A hand on her arm, jerking her back to the present – and she gasped and pulled away, hunching and trembling.   
  
Alarik Geatland – was she supposed to call him, Alarik? Dr. Geatland? - had his hands up again, keeping his distance. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I’m really sorry. Your father said you didn’t like to be touched, but I… didn’t think.”  
  
She saw, now, the mess she had been about to step in – a recent offering from a passing horse. Her eyes found his. “No, it’s… it’s all right. Thank you.”  
  
“But no more touching?”  
  
She was surprised to feel her lips quirk into a smile – and even more so by his grin in return. “Preferably no more touching,” she said.  
  
He nodded.   
  
She followed him more carefully now, not allowing her mind to wander again – and that was probably for the best. Thinking of Anna was like a knife through her heart.   
  
The streets grew narrower, quieter – and clearly older. Houses leaned precariously against one another and over the cobbled roads; the houses were mostly stone and wood, some covered in uneven stucco, windows thick-glassed and dark. Everything smelled of damp and mildew.   
  
Something must have shown on her face – Alarik said, “I’m afraid academics doesn’t pay terribly well. I’m going to… I can ask if some people I know might have a room for you. If you’d like. But you’re welcome here for as long as you want, of course.”  
  
“It’s fine,” Elsa said – and tried to convince herself it would be. There were thousands in this city, and most of them probably lived in places just like this, and were perfectly comfortable.   
  
“Just down here.” Alarik – Dr. Geatland – turned down a narrow alley, where a rickety outside staircase led up to a weather-warped door at the second story. Elsa followed him up with cautious footsteps – the wood was spongy, and the whole creaked ominously. There was no landing – when Dr. Geatland got the door unlocked, he had to lean dangerously far back, in Elsa’s view, to pull it open.   
  
The hall inside was narrow and dingy, the floor covered with a carpet so threadbare the floorboards were visible in several spots, the only light filtering through a dirty window at the far end. Elsa couldn’t help but think of the wide, airy corridors of home, the bright lamps, the enormous windows and high ceilings. There was here an almost overwhelming smell of mildew.  
  
He was looking at her, trying to gauge her reaction in the dim light, and there was something so puppyishly hopeful in his eyes and smile that she realized there was no chance of his ever being “Dr. Geatland” in her mind. She had expected someone much older – he seemed hardly older than she was.   
  
She managed a smile – and his shoulders relaxed visibly.   
  
“I’m at the far end,” he said, already walking that way. “I got lucky – it’s a lot quieter. Some of the others… come in rather late.”  
  
“Are they academics, too?” Elsa asked – almost unconscious etiquette training taking hold. She was afraid – of what, she couldn’t say.   
  
Of nothing. Of  _everything_.   
  
Alarik ducked his head before answering. “Ah, no. No. They’re… workers, mostly, at the docks and warehouses.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
She was fairly sure she had embarrassed him, but he said nothing, just bent to unlock the door, then stepped back to let her go in. She wasn’t sure what to expect – but maybe that was for the best.   
  
The single room was small – no more than half the size of her bedroom at home – and damp and absolutely stuffed with… stuff. From light let in through the green-glassed window, she could see a half-made single bed tucked against a corner, a rickety table and chair, a schoolroom desk with a broken leg tied with cloth, a crammed and ancient bookcase, and a deep, dark fireplace. There were two pots, a tin plate, several spoons and knives, and a small bucket next to the fireplace; a trunk half-forced beneath the bed; several blankets and towels piled beneath the window; and books and papers and journals and ledgers on the bookcase, on  _top_  of the bookcase, on the little table, on the desk, around the desk – haphazard, precarious stacks of clutter. At the center of the desk was what Elsa thought was a microscope – she had only seen engravings of them. It was clean and shiny, if a little worn-looking. On every other surface – dust.   
  
Now he was definitely embarrassed – cheeks flushed, eyes cast down as he took a very long time closing and bolting the door. “Sorry it’s a mess. I got another letter from your sister saying you’d left, but she didn’t know when you’d arrive, and it’s after the end of term, so I finally have research time, and I’ve been going to the docks every day this week, and it just… didn’t get done. I’ll try to do it… start doing it… tomorrow. I’ve taken a couple of days off. Just in case.”  
  
“It’s fine,” Elsa said – the words becoming increasingly familiar. She looked around once more – and then it hit her.   
  
Everything.  
  
The coronation, the North Mountain. Anna. Almost hitting her again, losing control. Hans and the dungeons and the manacles and Anna with her bowls of soup and the sick dread in her stomach and running and the fear of being caught and the fear of using money and the fear of what awaited her here and she still didn’t know and the fear… the  _fear!_    
  
She felt ice spreading beneath her feet and across the bare boards of the floor, and she whimpered and curled her hands to her chest, her  _gloved_  hands, and tendrils of panic snaked through her, her breath coming now in hitching gasps, unable to tear her eyes from the spreading shards on the floor.   
  
“Elsa?”  
  
Her eyes turned to him. She couldn’t blink.   
  
He took a step closer. No more. His eyes, too, were wide and frightened. “It’s controllable,” he said – voice soft and even. “It is,” he said, when she managed a frantic little headshake. “Take deep breaths, Elsa. Deep breaths.”  
  
She tried – she tried hard. He was doing it too, giving her a model to mimic, and she sucked in air, focused on slowing, evening – and finally, blessedly, she felt her lungs filling, her heart slowing its gallop.   
  
“Good,” Alarik said – and again: “Good.”  
  
She felt lightheaded and dizzy and confused. The ice had stopped, but there was buzzing around her ears, darkness at the edges of her vision. She took a step forward – she needed to sit down – stumbled – caught herself. She couldn’t make it to the chair. She half-fell to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest and clutching them. She was trembling.   
  
Alarik crouched a few feet away – despite his steady voice, he looked as terrified and uncertain as she was. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”  
  
She couldn’t immediately answer – couldn’t remember. She bit her lip. “Three… I think three days? I… I ran out of money.”  
  
“Do you think you can eat?”  
  
“I guess…”  
  
He pushed up, went to the window, pulled out a box that had been hidden by the blankets and towels there. “I only have… I have bread and cheese here, and a bottle of milk, I just bought it this morning, it should still be good. But if you want something else, I can-”  
  
“That’s fine. It’s fine.” She still hugged her knees – but the panic was gone, and she  _was_ hungry, she realized. Very hungry.  
  
He carried the box to the fireplace, and got a tiny coal-fire going before working on the food. He was probably freezing – it was December, and she could see his every exhaled breath.   
  
With only one plate and one cup, he left half the milk in the bottle, and put some of the bread and cheese in one of the little cooking pots. “You can sit at the table,” he said – he was holding the plate and cup for her. “I tried to find another chair, but… I couldn’t find anything I could afford.”  
  
“I’m fine here,” Elsa said. “Really.”  
  
“It’s all right, though. Plus – you outrank me.”  
  
She smiled at that, just for a moment. “Then you have to listen to me.”  
  
“Rebellious compromise,” he said – placing her little dinner before her before sitting across from her with his own.   
  
She was ravenous, but too many years of formal training disallowed her showing it – she took small, careful bites, and chewed slowly. The bread was dense and chewy, and the cheese was crumbly, but she had never tasted better.   
  
“What  _is_  your rank?” she asked – allowing an attempt at conversation.   
  
He swallowed a mouthful. “My father was a duke. But I gave up the title.”  
  
“You were the heir?”  
  
“Yes. It was… it was complicated.”  
  
“I can sympathize.” And when she smiled, he smiled back.   
  
He told her, though – about his family, and Geatland, and leaving as a teenager. It was nice: she could just listen, and eat, and for that little while not worry about past or future. The sky outside the window had darkened, leaving only the dim light of the fire, and Elsa couldn’t help yawning – it was as if her body recognized she had finally reached somewhere safe, with a full stomach, and four walls, and she could give herself over to the comfort of sleep.   
  
He saw the yawn. “You take the bed.”  
  
“That’s not fair. It’s yours.”  
  
He was gathering up the few dinner things, pulling a wet rag from the bucket by the fire to wipe them clean. “I’m not going to bed for awhile. If you sleep on the floor, I’ll probably be stupid enough to forget and step on you.”  
  
She doubted that, but said, “The floor’s still wet, though.” She could just see, in the dim light, the puddled, half-melted remains of her inability to control herself.  
  
“I have towels.”  
  
She sighed – but she was too exhausted to keep arguing. “You’ll take it tomorrow, then?”  
  
He grinned. “Deal.”  
  
She let her hair down, but had nothing to wear for sleep – she had nothing else at all. Tomorrow, maybe she would risk just a shift. Tonight, it seemed like too much work, undressing. But she did remove her gloves – hopeful.   
  
She crawled beneath the blankets, let her head settle to the thin pillow. She could hear his pen on paper, the rustling of turning pages.   
  
Then, softly, as if on an afterthought, he said, “Goodnight, Elsa.”  
  
Or maybe she only dreamed it.


	2. Elsa & Christmas

Alarik was quite sure he’d made the biggest mistake of his life. And he’d made some  _very_  big mistakes.   
  
Elsa -  _just_  Elsa now, something she would probably have to adjust to just as he would - was tiny and wide-eyed and clearly terrified.   
  
What he had to try very hard to hide was that he, too, was on the verge of panic.  
    
He waited until she was sure she was asleep. Then he put down his pen, closed his books, and gave over to hyperventilation. When that proved insufficient, he turned instead to pacing, carefully avoiding the squeakier floorboards. The room was frigid, the coals down to embers, but he didn’t want to add more in case the light - or heat - disturbed her. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully.   
  
Finally, exhausted by fear and shivering and the stresses of the day, he gathered up the spare blankets - kept for the dangerous cold of January and February - and managed a restless, dozing sleep until dawn. When the weak light woke him, he went immediately into what might, with luck, become a new routine, before the fear could grip him once more: he straightened and tucked his shirt in, ran a hand through his hair - for all the good that would do - and tore a strip from a discarded sheet of paper to write a quick note, in case Elsa woke before he returned.   
  
He went out into the cold morning, shivering despite scarf and gloves and coat, in search of breakfast. He usually just ate whatever was leftover from dinner the evening before, or nothing at all perhaps more often, but they had finished the bread and cheese and milk, and it seemed cruel to not have something for Elsa. He returned home half an hour later with a quarter pound of salted bacon, several half-price rolls from yesterday’s baking, and two small twists of brown paper: one of butter, the other of tea leaves. The butter was an indulgence, but he would water his ink for a few days to make up for it.   
  
Elsa was still asleep when he returned, and he wondered how long it had been since she’d had a full night’s rest. She looked very small and very peaceful, curled up on her side with her hands folded against her chest, blankets kicked off and her hair a pale, heavy fan around her. Despite the fear of the entire situation, he found himself feeling strangely, strongly protective of her - and of the trust her sister had placed in him. He was poor and weak and terrified, but he would do everything he could for her, until a better, safer -  _cleaner_  - place could be found for her to go.   
  
He used scrap wood and paper, now, for the fire, because it needed only to last through breakfast. He rarely allowed himself fires during the day. If it was too cold to go without, he went to the university, where reading room hearths blazed, or, on holidays, to church. He was not a believer, but he always wondered how many others found faith in the warmth of packed bodies and spent breath.   
  
While the fire built up, he took the bucket down to get clean water from the pump, for tea and for washing. When he got back, Elsa was sitting up, knuckling one eye like a sleepy child. When she saw him, she bit her lower lip.  
  
He stopped in the doorway, uncertainty holding him firmly as nails through his shoes. “Oh. Uh… Good morning.”  
  
“Good morning.” Her voice was thick and raspy with sleep.   
  
“Would you like some breakfast?”  
  
She blinked once, and again, before nodding.   
  
So he came in, set the bucket down, got to work. Bacon over the fire in one pot, water for tea in the other. Single plate and cup set out for her - with the butter; he could do without - and the milk bottle of the night before and the smoothed wax paper from the bacon for his own setting. He gave them each two rolls, leaving four more for lunch or dinner.   
  
Elsa, he noticed from the corner of his eye, had crawled to the end of the bed and perched there cross-legged, watching him work. But she said nothing, and so neither did he.   
  
He used his spoon to flip the bacon - he’d gotten lucky, for the price he was able to pay; it was a good cut, and was cooking very nicely - then took the pot of boiling water off the fire and sprinkled the tea in it to steep. “Almost ready,” he said.   
  
She was still watching, elbows on her knees and chin on her hands, but she didn’t reply. She didn’t seem to say much at all, but he didn’t know if that was a result of the fear and stress of the last few months, or just a natural reticence.   
All he knew of her, really, came from letters written several years before, the last arriving when he was just about to reach his twenty-first birthday - and some few days after newspaper headlines had reported the tragic loss of King Agdar and Queen Idunn of Arendelle.   
  
The king had never described his elder daughter’s appearance, or much of the personality now so masked by fear and self-doubt. Instead, he had written of her intelligence, her keen mind for mathematics, her quick wit. The letters had spoken of her consuming fears - but in all, his love for her had shone through.   
  
And now here was word made flesh, watching him cook her meager breakfast.   
Had Agdar known the real Elsa? Had  _anyone?_  
  
Would Alarik?  
  
“Breakfast is served,” he said, putting plate and cup on the table.  
  
Elsa got down from the bed, walked the few steps across the room, picked up plate and cup, and sat across from him on the floor.   
  
Her raised eyebrow invited him to try arguing.   
  
He didn’t. Nor did he object when she took half the butter - cutting neatly through the middle - and placed the rest, still in its unwrapped twist, at the edge of his waxed-paper plate.   
  
She was a queen, and his training on aristocratic etiquette went deep. But more than that, he didn’t _want_  to object. There was something to this silent exchange that sent warmth through him, as fleeting, perhaps, as a full belly, but nonetheless, he would take it. It was nice - he had shared no more than a rare meal offered to university staff in a very, very long time. Elsa was quiet, but it was already obvious she saw everything, actually  _listened_  to words spoken. It was likely learned of necessity, but regardless, he liked it. He liked  _her._    
  
“How did you learn to cook?” she asked as they ate - and there was genuine curiosity in her voice, beyond mere polite query.   
  
“I had to,” he said. The butter was good on rolls - he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had butter. “It was that, or starve.” He felt himself grinning, but could do nothing to prevent it.   
  
Elsa nodded, eyes focused on the food before her. “That makes sense. I should have known without asking.” Her hair was still loose, her feet bare despite the bone-deep chill. She looked painfully vulnerable.   
  
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly. “It was ridiculous, really. I was 16 when I left home, and the first thing I tried was spitting meat on sticks, which I’d probably read about in a ‘true story of most miraculous survival’ in one of the ladies’ journals my mother occasionally bought. It didn’t go as well as I probably hoped.”  
  
She was still looking down, but a smile tugged at the corners of her lips.  
  
“It took me longer than I like to admit to think back to what I’d seen in the kitchens at home. I still had some money then, so I - Is something wrong?” She was squinting at her cup of tea.   
  
But her eyes rose to briefly meet his, and she shook her head. “No - I’m sorry. Go on.”  
  
“I should have saved some milk. Or sugar - I don’t know if you take sugar.”  
  
Another quirk at her lips. “Not half as much as my sister does.” But then it was gone, like shutters closed over her face. “It’s not that. I’ve just… never had it with the leaves still in it.”  
  
“Oh. Yes. You get used to drinking around them, I’ve found.” He added “strainer” to the mental list of things to save for. Maybe he would just start watering his ink as general practice.   
  
She took a tentative sip of tea. “It’s good. What kind is it?”  
  
“It’s rare. It’s called ‘whatever was left over at the tea shop when the new stock came in, sold as a mixed jumble to Mrs. Herrdrehl for her dry goods stall’. You’ll never taste exactly the same again.”  
  
She actually laughed at that, and he felt absurdly proud of himself.   
  
Breakfast finished and dishes washed- and wax paper crumpled and shoved in his pocket to be tossed in the first midden heap he passed - he said, “So, um… clothes.”  
  
She reddened slightly. “I’m fine in this. Really. I don’t feel cold much.”  
  
He resisted the urge to ask more about that - she wasn’t here as a research subject. And maybe he would have a chance to ask later.   
  
She was wearing a dark blue dress over a brown shirt and brown stockings - not as fine as what she probably wore at home, but still unlikely to last for a long time if worn repeatedly, a lesson he had learned quickly while wearing his own “practical” clothes from back in Geatland. They might not be silk and satin, but they were still designed with the mindset that accessible repair or replacement would be available. Clothes bought here were thicker cloth, rougher weave less inclined to unravel or tear when caught. He had never bought women’s clothing, of course, but assumed it was likely similar. And she would need some - living here, unfortunately, she  _would_  need some.   
  
But he didn’t know how to tell her that. It ashamed him, suddenly - all of it. This part of the city, the boarding house, his room - the squalor and clutter, the constant smell of smoke and old cooking and damp wood and mildewed bedding. She still had no real understanding of the world in which she had landed - the world in which he had invited her to land. But the realization would come for her, as it had for him. He would never forget the helpless tears that had come when he realized he would have to sell several cherished books, some of the few he had carried through many years of wandering, in order to pay his rent. In living this far down, there was no grace period, nor were there sympathetic landlords. He had sold his books, paid his due, and returned to that summer’s meager quarters to cry again.   
  
Yes, Elsa would realize - but if he could prevent it, it would never be so harsh as that. Even if he had to sell more books to make sure, he had been here long enough to not feel the loss quite as deeply. He would do what was necessary.   
  
“Why don’t we just go have a look?” he asked. “I mean, if you don’t mind, it’s up to you, but… there’s a pretty nice market square, not far from the docks, so there’s usually… a lot to look at.” He knew nothing about women’s clothing, much less what might appeal to her. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay locked up in here all the time.”  
  
He saw her shoulders hunch, just perceptibly, and realized what he’d said. But before he could apologize, her eyes - clear and blue and firm - met his. “Yes,” she said. “That would be fine - going out to look.” Resolve in her eyes - but there was a tremble in her voice. Once more, she bit her lip.   
  
She wore the cloak and gloves in which she had arrived - and even without her earlier admission, he might have suspected that wasn’t due to the December chill. Still, most of the skittishness of the day before was gone; in place was a mask: serene face, straight back, gloved hands folded before her. Among women hard-bitten early by poverty and desperation, clutching threadbare shawls with chilblained hands and usually surrounded by hordes of red-faced children, Elsa was going to stand out no matter what she did, pale and unblemished and imperious as she was. If it helped her to walk like a queen, he didn’t see that it was likely to make the situation any worse.   
  
The marketplace was packed, far more so than was usual mid-morning, and it was only when he saw the butcher’s sign, advertising holiday specials, that he realized Elsa had arrived only a few days before Christmas. She seemed as oblivious as he had been, but judging from the way her brows drew down, she was deliberately taking in as little as possible, in order to maintain control. King Agdar had written that even as a child, crowds had been difficult, and she had fled more than one social event as temperatures dropped and frost trickled out beneath her feet.   
  
“We don’t have to stay long,” Alarik said, leaning close to make himself heard over the chatter of shoppers and sellers alike, but careful not to touch. Elsa just nodded. She stayed close by his side as they ventured deeper.   
  
He went first to a stall where books were sold - and bought. He wandered for a bit, pretending to browse, hoping something would catch Elsa’s attention long enough for him to do what was necessary. She stopped by a shelf of gothic novels, looking around to make sure it was all right to do so before sliding one out to glance through the pages. When he was fairly certain she was absorbed - she was hardly blinking, her lips parted - he went to conduct his own business. He glanced back more than once; she was reading each time.   
  
But when he rejoined her, she said, “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to do that.” She was still looking down at the open book.   
  
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s… necessary more often than you might think. And they’re usually still here when I have a little extra again.”  
  
“I can’t  _imagine_  why.”  
  
He burst out laughing, loudly enough to draw disapproving looks from several others. Well, let them - laughter caused no harm, and Elsa looked pleased with herself. Se glanced a last time at the page before her, then closed the book and returned it carefully to its place on the shelf.   
  
Alarik looked back at the bookseller, who nodded.   
  
They spent the new few hours trying to figure out buying her new clothes - Alarik had never bought clothes for anyone but himself, and Elsa had never bought clothes at all. He finally convinced her he didn’t mind paying for two new dresses - a lighter blue, a bit more expensive, but it was obvious she liked it, and a deep green - and a new bodice very similar to the old.   
  
“I’ll pay for them,” Elsa said repeatedly, something close to panic in her voice; she was clenching her gloved hands together at her chest. “Or… or Anna will. I’ll write to her, in your name.”  
  
“I don’t mind, it’s fine,” he said, but she was clearly not going to drop it, so he finally added, “You should write to Anna anyway - as you said, in my name.”  
  
But Elsa bit her lip and fell silent, and there were some walls she had built that he knew he could never, at least for the moment, get around. She was quiet and withdrawn on the walk back to his - their - little room, but once there, she untied the twine holding together her bundle of clothes, folded each item tight and neat, and placed them on the trunk at the end of the bed.   
  
She looked, he thought, very pleased. He was glad. 

* * *

  
The next few days were peaceful, if often more than a little bit awkward. He rarely did much besides work - he had no money for anything else - but it seemed uncouth to bury himself in books and notes when Elsa was there, quiet and uncertain and so very, very alone. But it was hard to tell how much engagement she wanted. Occasionally, she would participate in something almost like normal conversation, but those moments were rare - usually, she answered questions politely but succinctly, and was all but silent otherwise.   
  
After the single trip to the market, she also showed no inclination to go out again, though her usual place in the room became sitting on the edge of the bed, where she had a view out the little window to the street below. It took her little time to adjust to the schedules of the neighborhood, so that she saw the departures of the dock and factory workers at dawn, the return of some for lunch, and the appearance of street vendors with questionable meal-stuffs for all the workers trudging home in the frigid dusk.   
  
He watched her sometimes, then - he just couldn’t help it. Her eyes grew bright and her cheeks flushed, like a delighted child. For those few minutes, he caught a glimpse of an Elsa happy, carefree, part of a wider world.   
  
But he seemed incapable of finding a way to draw it out otherwise. He wasn’t sure how to phrase even his own activities - wanting her to know she was welcome to come out with him, but not wanting her to feel forced, he settled for just stating his intentions, though “I’m, uh… going to get lunch now” was still far from optimal.   
  
She usually just nodded.   
  
Then, one morning, she ventured a question from her usual perch by the window: “Where is everyone today?”  
  
He glanced out at the empty street, then realized: “Oh - it’s Christmas Eve. The factories are closed today and tomorrow.”  
  
“Christmas Eve?” She was still looking out the window, down at the cold, silent street. “I missed my birthday…”  
  
“When was your birthday?”  
  
“Last week.” And she lapsed once more into silence.   
  
He went out in the evening to buy dinner as well as things for the next day, when even the street vendors would be scarce. Money was running low - he’d need to take on tutoring again, come spring - but he bought what he needed, regardless. There were always more books to sell.   
  
Christmas morning came with bells and shouting in the streets, and Elsa almost smiling as she watched the neighborhood children - usually as dour and rough as their parents - laugh and toss balls of wrinkled paper and run deftly along the slick cobblestones.   
  
They ate well - sausages and lutefisk and cabbage, and he’d bought rice pudding for dessert. Elsa was quiet, but seemed happy enough, even laughing when she found the almond and he pulled from his pocket the tiny marzipan pig.  
    
“Anna always won,” she said. “Even though she didn’t like marzipan.”  
  
“Do you?”  
  
“Yes.” But she broke the pig in half, so that he got some, too.   
  
He almost lost his nerve on the last thing, putting it off, wondering if it wouldn’t make sense just to sell it back, and hope to get even half of what he’d paid. The sky was growing dark when he finally said, “I, uh… I got you something. Just something small.”  
  
She took the paper-wrapped parcel in both hands, a strange, almost pensive expression in her eyes. “Thank you. I… I appreciate it very much.” She pulled the paper away with slow, careful hands, then was still for quite some time, staring down at the book’s cover.  
  
Then, to his surprise, she started to laugh - true, deep laughter that made her eyes water and her cheeks brighten and one hand rise quickly to cover her open mouth. He grinned - he couldn’t help it. Maybe she hated it, but regardless, she was laughing. She was  _happy._    
  
“I’m sorry,” she finally said, wiping her eyes with the back of one gloved hand. “It was very thoughtful. I just didn’t know you were paying that much attention when…”  
  
“When you were doing the same thing to me?”  
  
She nodded. She was still smiling.   
  
She put the book on the trunk, next to her spare clothes - all that she owned in the world, now. She looked at those things frequently, as if reassuring herself they were still there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …And according to tradition, the one who finds the almond will be the next to marry.


	3. Elsa & Romance Novels (I)

Elsa tried to enjoy the book Alarik had given her for Christmas. She tried very hard, particularly as she appreciated the distraction both the book and the effort gave to her. She read the whole thing, in the days following the holiday, when he returned to work at the university, leaving her alone - to stew, or to wander, or to read.   
  
He did make it clear - again - that he didn’t want her to feel trapped there, a prisoner still, her whole world within four walls. “Just say on the busier streets, and keep any money close. Down here… well, it’s not as if people can send their servants to do the shopping. There will be other people like… like you.”  
  
Would there be?  
  
She was afraid, yes, but not so overcome by it that she was oblivious to his own rather obvious fear and uncertainty. She did wonder, more than once, if he regretted agreeing to let her come here, but how could she ask if that was the case? She couldn’t, of course. He had mentioned once speaking to friends about finding a better place for her, but nothing further had been said.   
  
Was that to be the rest of her life, then? Forever moved from place to place, like a pawn on a chessboard, forever hiding, forever in exile?  
  
She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything - not anymore. Less than half a year since a crown had been placed on her head, and she was in the slums of a foreign city without a skilling to her name. In such a life, how could anyone claim to know anything?  
  
Alarik seemed almost relieved to be going back to the university, and she couldn’t blame him - she couldn’t possibly be good company. Still, he promised to be back as early as he could, and she was free to leave, and he had a few skillings, in the box under the window, if she wanted to get something eat or leaves for tea or -  
  
“It’s fine,” Elsa said - words that had become almost like a mantra, attempting to reassure herself as much as him.  
  
Nothing was fine.   
  
She watched from the window as he walked away down the cobbled street, bent against the wind, hands buried deep in the pockets of his worn coat, his too-long hair flopping against the crown of his head. She could feel, clearly, the snow promised by day’s end, the heaviness in the air, filling her, lungs and heart and veins, speaking to its kin within her.   
  
At least he didn’t have to worry about her needing to keep a fire going all day, she thought. More light might have been nice, but she didn’t want to use the very limited supply of oil for the lamp, either. She would make do with the dreary sun that made it in through the thick, dusty panes of the window.  
  
She stared out, long after he had disappeared - there was something soothing about watching the world out there, safely removed from it but a spectator nonetheless. People passed occasionally - women with folded sacks or baskets, heading to the marketplace; two scrawny boys leading an even scrawnier goat by a fraying length of rope. The snow began to fall mid-morning, and after, the streets were all but empty.   
  
With snow, and the tiny room empty and silent around her, she couldn’t prevent her thoughts returning to Arendelle - to all the things she had tried so hard not to dwell on, these last few days. How long had it been?  
  
How long since she left Anna?  
  
She couldn’t remember.   
  
Anna was alone - married and safe, yes, but was that enough to see to her happiness? What would happen if anyone - Princes Hans - found out that she had helped Elsa escape?  
  
For that matter, what had happened  _after_  her escape?  
  
She didn’t know. She had been too focused on herself to find out.   
  
Anna might be executed in her place - conspiracy, treason, any number of charges brought against her by those seeking improving in their own fortunes. Who would defend her? To whom could she turn, with her only living family fled?  
Elsa had just left her - selfish, heartless creature that she was.  
  
She looked away from the window - and realized snow was now falling inside as well as out. She pushed up from the bed - quick, furtive movement; backed to the corner, drawing her hands up to her chest. “No.” Her breath coming in rapid, frantic bursts. “No, no, no…”  
  
Her father’s voice: “ _Conceal it, Elsa._ ”  
  
“Don’t feel.” Tucking her hands away, bending over them, desperate. “ _Don’t feel_.”  
  
This wasn’t her place. This was Alarik’s place - everything he had in the world.  
  
She had to go. Get herself under control.   
  
She fled - all but blind to the hallway, the rickety steps, the icy cobbles and their thin coating of snow. How far she ran, she did not know; she ran until, still malnourished and weak from months in a dungeon cell, she tripped over a board hidden by the snow and fell hard to the street, gasping at the pain that reverberated up through her knees, the skinned palms of her hands. And there she remained, trembling and gulping for breath, for another uncertain, indefinite time. She didn’t think she had enough strength left to stand, much less continue to run.   
  
She did what Alarik had done, to help calm her that first day she had arrived: she took deep, audible breaths, focusing on the movement of her chest, the pleasant chill of the air as she drew it deep within her. Gradually, her heart slowed, the terrific panic abated, and she could push herself to a sit, her back against the anonymous brick wall behind her, hugging her knees to her chest. She felt dizzy and weak - but once more in control of her own faculties.   
  
There was someone else, across the street, huddled, much as she was, but within the confines of a ragged blanket, watching her with dark, wary eyes - and she suddenly realized how vulnerable she truly was here. This wasn’t the wilds of Arendelle, and she had far more to fear from people than from anything in the forest. The last few months in a cell had shown her that truth.   
  
She got to her feet, trying not to look as unsteady as she felt. She held her head high - and her arms crossed tightly across her chest. One of her gloves had torn as she fell. Her dress had not; Alarik had been right that the tougher cloth of cheap fabric was a good idea. Her first few steps were wobbly, but she managed to stay up, though her head was swimming and spots danced before her eyes.   
  
She had no idea how to get back to Alarik’s boarding house - or even to the market square, from which she might be able to retrace the way they had gone before. She knew she hadn’t gone far - she was still surrounded by ancient, crumbling, looming buildings - but that was little help when she nonetheless could not remember the way “not far” had taken her.   
  
“Don’t panic,” she whispered. “Do _not_  panic.”  
  
Slightly reassuring - so she tried to convince herself - was the lightness of the snow, the brisk breeze that was nonetheless far from a frigid gale. She had kept a measure of control - that, or her overall weakness impacted her powers as well. Would Alarik know? She knew what he studied - but he had never mentioned her magic, nor asked her any questions. Would he mind if  _she_  asked  _him_  questions?  
  
She had to find her way back to him, first.   
  
At the corner, she stopped and tried to get her bearings, some part of her hoping her mind would magically have taken note of where her panicked flight had taken her. But all she saw was dirty stone, grey sky, unbroken scrim of fresh-fallen snow. She tucked her hands more deeply under her arms, and looked back the way she had come, where her footprints were already filling in white.   
Should she go on, risk getting even more lost while seeking something familiar? Or should she knock on a door and ask for help - was it permissible to knock on a stranger’s door?  
  
She didn’t know.  
  
Nor did she know how long she stood there on the corner, hunched and uncertain. She couldn’t stay there forever - but how could she know where to go? Her heart was speeding up again, deep breaths becoming more difficult, and though it had not yet escaped, she could feel the cold pulsing just beneath the thin veneer of her skin.   
  
“Madame?” A deep, commanding voice, with just a trace of an unfamiliar accent. “Are you in need of assistance?”  
  
Elsa whirled, already sinking back against the rough wall behind her, breath hitching. The man was as large as his voice, and made even larger by the layers he wore, the outer of which was a coat that made him look rather like a clean-shaven bear, with matching fuzzy hat. But his eyes, when she found them, were deep and brown and kind. There was such genuine concern in them that her breath caught once more. She remained in her defensive hunch - but the fear that she would have to flee again was already fading.   
  
“Has someone hurt you?” the man asked - and now she could find kindness there, too, among the pleasant tone of the accent, still impossible to place.  
  
“I- no. Why…?”  
  
He smiled. “You have no coat. Though you do not appear cold - I envy you, I confess. I fear I find it cold here even in the midst of summer, though I have been here 15 years now.”  
  
She didn’t know what to say - it was like all the well-rehearsed rules of polite conversation had abandoned her when she left her throne in Arendelle. She just nodded.   
  
“Still,” the man said, as if she had responded in some normal fashion, “and I do not mean to pry, but you seem… burdened?”  
  
Elsa bit her lip. “I.. I’m… lost. I don’t know how to get ho-… to where I’m staying.”  
  
“You are new to the city?”  
  
There was no judgement in his voice, only compassion, and she felt it wash over her: relief, and comfort, and… trust? “Yes. I’m… I’m staying with… a friend. Dr. Alarik Geatland.” In this city of thousands, how would he know the name? But it didn’t matter - it was all she had.  
  
The man’s brow drew down in clear dismay. “We are not acquainted, I’m afraid. Do you perhaps have an address for his residence?”  
  
How could she not know that? His address?  
  
She was a fool.   
  
“I’m… I haven’t been here long, and…”  
  
She trailed off, embarrassed, but the man just nodded. He seemed to think hard. “A doctor - at the hospital?”  
  
“Oh - no. He’s a scholar. At the… the university.”  
  
The man grinned now, wide and triumphant. “Ah! A scholar.” He nodded again. “Yes - I know the university!”  
  
Elsa almost cried, relief so great struck her then. “Can you tell me the way?”  
  
“Better - I’ll show you!”  
  
“Oh, no, you don’t-”  
  
But he had already turned. “It’s this way, not far. But be careful, the road is very slippery.”  
  
“I… I will be.” She followed him - because what choice did she have? She could think of no other way, short of her earlier thoughts of wandering or knocking on a stranger’s door. This way was far easier, though she felt very awkward, following along behind this large, friendly man like a duckling.   
  
“My brother went to a university,” the man said, “but I chose adventure. I took a place on a trading ship, and five years later, I was captain of my own! But once on a visit to my family, I met Lilah, the most beautiful, wonderful woman on all the earth. But she is wise and practical - she would not marry me until I could provide for her, on land. So I came here, and set up my business, and now, Lilah has given me five children, as beautiful as she is.”  
  
He didn’t not look to Elsa for responses, and for that, she was grateful. He prattled on as they walked, apparently intending to share as much of his life story as the journey allowed. She didn’t even know his name. She half-listened, but mostly focused on trying to pay attention, now, to the way they went. She had never considered how similar streets could look to one another. Aside from her time spent here, she had gone into the city in Arendelle… maybe twice a year, until she was eight? Certainly not often, and never by herself.   
  
The streets had grown finer - they were walking now among large, clean, free-standing residences, many with small gardens or orchards, and bristly fences and gates protecting them. Elsa couldn’t help but imagine what was inside: solid walls, and clean floors, and dustless surfaces, and the smells of fresh linen and dry air from large, open windows and high ceilings. And a place to be alone, and protected.  
  
But she reminded herself, forcefully, of the dungeon cell beneath the castle, and the sick dread of no escape. “This is better,” she muttered.  
  
“Did you speak, madame?”  
  
“Oh - no. I’m sorry.”  
  
“We are almost there, and-”  
  
“ _Elsa?_ ”  
  
Alarik’s voice - he was across the street and so far away she could only recognize him by the brightness of his hair, but as soon as she looked up, he started running.   
  
“This is your doctor?” her guide asked as Alarik reached them, red-faced and gasping for breath.   
  
“Yes,” Elsa said, “and I-”  
  
But the man bowed deeply then, even doffing his hat, and for a moment, she found herself confused about both who and where she was. “Then I leave you to him with good wishes. I have left my eldest daughter in charge of my wares, and I cannot allow this for too long, or people will know how unnecessary I am in the face of her brilliance.” He straightened, smiling broadly. “But perhaps we shall meet again? Until then, alas, I must bid you a good day, madame.”  
  
And before she could even say thank you, he turned and was gone as quickly as he seemed to have appeared.   
  
Alarik, finally catching his breath sufficiently to speak, said, “Who was that?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
A pause - and she looked at him, and was surprised to see what looked like anger in his eyes. “You don’t  _know?_  Elsa you can’t just… trust people. People you know nothing about!”  
  
She stared at him - for perhaps longer than was necessary - eyebrows raised and lips tight. “Like  _you?_ ”  
  
He looked appropriately abashed - his cheeks flushing even brighter, and his mouth opening and closing several times before he was finally able to speak. “Not like me. I’m not… You know my name, if someone asks! You’ll get hurt, Elsa, you can’t-”  
  
The irritation flared to anger. “I  _can’t?_ ”  
  
He sighed. “You shouldn’t.”  
  
She said nothing. She just stared at him.   
  
And finally, he huffed another sigh, raised gloved hands and let them fall at his sides. “Fine. Just… remember you can’t trust everybody.”  
  
“That’s easy enough.” She tucked her own hands back under her arms - last time she’d gotten angry, only a lucky accident had prevented her striking Anna, once again, with magic. “Considering that I don’t trust anybody.”  
  
“Not even me?”  
  
She didn’t know what to say. She looked away, down at the layer of unbroken snow, marred only by the remains of their footsteps - no more was falling, but the day was still grey and overcast and cold.   
  
His third sigh was of resigned acceptance. “Let’s go home?”  
  
She nodded. She still couldn’t meet his gaze, but she felt it upon her.   
  
They walked most of the way back in silence. She couldn’t decide how she was feeling - recalcitrant? Misunderstood? - but it was uncomfortable, whatever it was, and so she kept her arms tightly crossed, her eyes cast down, following him and very aware, once more, of just how far she was from home. More people were out, now that the snow had stopped, and she was sure they were all staring at her - the strange, hunched young woman wandering streets not her own, no coat or scarf or hat, an anomaly… or a monster?  
  
_Conceal, don’t feel._  
  
“Were you trying to find me?” Alarik finally asked.   
  
She risked a glance up, but he was looking pointedly ahead. They had to be nearing his home - the streets had again narrowed to caverns beneath crumbling, leaning buildings. She could smell midden and waste - human and otherwise - even in the frigid air, and could hear chickens down one of the narrow alleys, behind the rows of houses.   
  
“Yes,” she said quickly. “I… lost my way.”  
  
“You went out?”  
  
“I…” She wasn’t sure, at that moment, if she wanted to tell him the truth of what had happened. “I was… worried about Anna.”  
  
“You were…” And now he did look at her, as it hit: “Oh.  _Oh._  Of course… oh god, I’m an idiot - I meant to tell you. Anna’s fine. I saw the newspapers, just a couple of days before you arrived. She’s been crowned. Her husband has been named prince consort.”  
  
The relief that washed over her was breathtaking - she released a hand to press it hard against her chest, over her pounding heart.   
  
“Elsa?”  
  
“I’m fine. It’s… I’m fine.” She didn’t have to work as hard to make herself smile as she might have anticipated. But she had to put a hand to the decaying wall as they climbed the stairs to his room, afraid she would not be able to keep her balance.   
  
Anna was safe.   
  
That was all that mattered, all that would ever matter.  
  
Her ebullience lasted until he opened the door to his room, and she saw the snow - not a lot, but enough, and mostly unmelted; the room was hardly warmer than it was outside.   
  
Elsa stopped dead - then, when she saw Alarik’s shoulders slump, had to resist mightily the urge, again, to run. She twisted her hands together. The gloves were on, Anna was safe. She could control it.   
  
He turned to her, clearly dismayed, and she recoiled. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I-”  
  
“I shouldn’t have left you,” he said.   
  
Her mouth closed. She folded her arms once more. She did not speak - she had no idea what to say.   
  
He pushed his hair, damp and limp with melted snow, out of his eyes, looking down, defeated. “My apologies. Elsa. I shouldn’t have gone so soon.”  
  
She looked, again, at the mess she had made - and felt a wave of homesickness wash over her. How many tens, hundreds of times had this happened in her childhood? With the reduced staff, it was usually Gerda - who had always known Elsa’s secret - who came to clean up the mess. She came with rags and bucket and broom - but also hot chocolate. She always brought Elsa hot chocolate, but would never explain why she thought Elsa deserved it, despite her shameful behavior. She never let Elsa help, either, telling her there was a rigorous training required to work in the castle, and Elsa would have to ask her father if she could join the staff. That sometimes - not always, but sometimes - made Elsa smile.   
  
“I’ll clean it up,” she said.  
  
“No,” Alarik said quickly. “I can do it, it’s fine.” Her words reflected back at her.   
Was it fine? She didn’t know.  
  
He was on his knees, towels in hand, and she stood in the doorway, uncertain and out of place once more. He was shivering, despite the exertion. She wondered if the university had fireplaces.   
  
“Wait.” The thought had suddenly hit her. “Are you supposed to be at the university?”  
  
He paused momentarily, but didn’t look up. “I’m going back. I was worried you wouldn’t go out to get lunch, so I thought I’d come back. Just to make sure… you were all right.”  
  
“Oh. Thank you.”  
  
He gave a sort of embarrassed half-nod, still not looking at her.   
  
“I don’t want you to worry about me,” she finally said.  
  
“I’m not sure I have any choice.” The tone was gentle, but still the words stung. He hadn’t asked for this, any more than she had.   
  
So all she said was, “I know.”  
  
He had brought things to eat from the university - “They sometimes bring in food around holidays” - and they had open-faced sandwiches in relative silence, sitting, as always, on the floor. Alarik looked broody and displeased, and Elsa didn’t want to make it any worse - worse than she already had. She wanted to tell him two meals a day would be fine, but what if he then felt like he had to skip meals, too?  
  
“I’m sorry,” she finally said - an apology for today, and for everything.  
  
He smiled - and she didn’t think it was entirely forced. “You’re better company than I’d have in the hall.”  
  
She tried her best to smile back.   
  
And after he left - promising to bring home dinner, and apologies if he was late - she picked up the book he had given her for Christmas, determined to keep herself occupied. She shouldn’t create more fuss than she already had.   
  
She sat on the bed, where she could see out the window - and where there was, perhaps, just a little more light. She crossed her legs, opening the book across them, so that it rested comfortably across her skirt.  
  
Then, she read.  
  
It was an absolutely absurd story, all about a beautiful young woman who had been caught up, alongside her husband, in the French Revolution. After the war was over, Napoleon now ruling France, they decided to travel - for reasons unclear to Elsa - to England, where the beautiful young woman, wandering through the ruins of a castle, inexplicably found herself sent back in time to the Hundred Years’ War, where of course the English thought she was a French spy. She there got to know a handsome young outlaw, hoping to clear his name fighting for the king.   
  
By the time she reached the contrived, inevitable marriage between the beautiful young woman and the handsome young outlaw, she was hardly aware of her own derisory snort - because equally, her mind was absorbed.


	4. Elsa & Romance Novels (II)

The winter season’s first blizzard arrived mid-morning on the third day of January. Elsa was hardly aware of it, even as the wind howled and sleet and snow drummed and pattered at the window only inches away from her usual perch on the bed - the handsome young outlaw had been seized and sentenced to death by the evil French duke, and the beautiful young woman had come up with a daring, dangerous plan to free him by pretending to be Jeanne d’Arc.

  
It was horrible, and it was wonderful.  
  
Elsa had never much cared for novels, unlike Anna, who had devoured them from the day she discovered a volume of fairytales in the upstairs library. To Elsa, it always felt as if they offered only hurt, in their promises of pat tie-ups and happy endings. That was not the way of reality - only of hollow disappointment.  
   
But maybe Anna’s love had stemmed from the escape, not the expectation. For the time spent in the story, the dreary world of reality was gone, and that, somehow, was worth the ensuing melancholy of return. For Elsa now, there was no hope, no future, just the moment - and the moment spent in imagination was preferable to reality.   
  
Even if the story was perhaps the most absurd, unlikely nonsense she had ever heard - and that included her own life. At least she hadn’t fallen in love. Judging by the beautiful young woman and the handsome young outlaw, it seemed rather violent and overwhelming.   
  
She was so absorbed, she jumped when, far earlier than normal, the door clicked open to the sound of Alarik knocking snow off his shoes on the half-rotted wood of the frame. He was encrusted in it, shaking it from his hair, and he was shivering so hard he could hardly get out of his coat.   
  
When her mind finally processed it and her hammering heart slowed, she pushed up from her spot on the bed, went to the fireplace, began fumbling for match and kindling. She had never built a fire herself, but the process seemed simple enough.   
  
But Alarik said, “No, don’t - no fire.” He had his coat off, but the rest of him was just as soaked through, and his lips had taken on a distinct bluish tinge.   
  
“But -”  
  
He shook his head. “I’ll be fine with blankets. It’s too early to waste the wood.”  
  
“But you’re wet. Can’t that… can’t that make you ill, when it’s cold?”  
  
“It’s fine - I’ll… switch blankets.”  
  
She watched as he wrapped himself in one, huddling in the corner next to the door and still shaking like a leaf. “You… don’t want to at least put on dry clothes?”  
  
His eyes found hers, and he shook his head, cheeks flaming beyond the cold - and when she realized he had been doing the same thing she was, heat rose in her own.   
  
Since he had bought her the two new dresses, she had changed only when he was out - to get breakfast, or to the university. She did so with hurried, fumbling fingers, sure he would return at any moment for the money to pay, for a missing book. And it locked in her mind, in an instant, that he must have been doing the same; likely, she thought, he changed at the university.   
  
How had she not noticed?  
  
Regardless, she said, “I can go into the hall.” She didn’t wait for a reply but pushed up from the bed and walked out, head down, cheeks blazing. She stood in the hallway with her arms crossed, embarrassed and nonplussed. One of the other doors on the hall opened, and she could hear the heavy tread of boots on the ancient floorboards, but she didn’t look up - not until the man cleared his throat.   
  
He was large, as large as the man who had helped her find the university, but with none of the air of kindness and concern. His tiny, gleaming eyes worked up and down her, and when he gave a leering smile around a greasy beard, his few remaining teeth were tobacco-brown. “Didn’t know the little books man had it in him - or the money, neither.”  
  
Elsa crossed her arms more tightly, her face carefully neutral - but with the same silent command from its set she had learned from her father. She said nothing.  
   
The man’s eyes narrowed at her unspoken challenge, but a moment later, he began to laugh. “Feisty. I like that. Come see me sometimes - you deserve better than whatever a scholar has between his legs.”  
  
Finally understanding the implication of the words, Elsa’s jaw dropped, her eyes going wide - but the man was already going, making his slow, heavy way down the hall and still chuckling at his own wit. She bit her lip.   
  
But when Alarik called her back in and asked if someone had been bothering her, she shook her head and said, “He just spoke on the way out.”  
  
“You’re sure?”  
  
She managed a smile, though it was tremulous, and nodded. “I’m sure.”  
  
He had enough to worry about.   
  
As was punctuated a moment later, when he sighed and looked out the window. “If we’re going to be snowed in for a few days, I guess I should get some food to last us through.”  
  
“Snowed in?”  
  
“Yes.” He ran a hand through his damp hair, which was drying in crazy corkscrews. “They closed the university until Friday. Though - “ he almost smiled “ - they did pay me early, so at least we can  _afford_  food.”  
  
“That’s not such a terrible silver lining,” Elsa said, and he gave her a proud, childlike smile in return.   
  
“No, but I don’t have any great desire to go back out into that.” He inclined his head towards the window. “This is a bad one. Makes me miss Paris, winters weren’t so brutal there…”  
  
Elsa managed a dry smile. “Well - it wasn’t me, I promise,” she said, and after a pause, he laughed - and she felt a tiny swell of pride, enough that she felt bold enough to say, “Could I go instead?”  
  
For what felt like a long, awkward time, he just stared at her. “I couldn’t ask you to do that,” he finally said. “It’s miserable out there.”  
  
“I told you, though - I don’t really feel it.”  
  
“Maybe not the cold, but surely wind and sleet…? Elsa, no, I can’t ask you to do that.”  
  
Her smile now was wry. “You didn’t ask. I offered.”  
  
“Elsa…”  
  
“Please?”  
  
He glanced out the window again, then sighed. “Fine, all right - but just go to the next corner, up the road. If you turn left, there’s a bakery. They overcharge, but it’s closer.” He went to his coat and extracted from its inner pocket a little bag of waxed leather. There were the usual skilling and öre coins, but also several paper riksdalers. He pulled one of these out, and she wrapped her hand around it. She had never paid for anything in her life until just a few weeks before.   
  
Alarik was smiling at her.”Thank you, Elsa.”  
  
She ducked her head and nodded - embarrassed, but also still feeling that curious pride. Because she’d offered to do something, something that required leaving the security of four walls around her? Because she had dealt with the… the situation in the corridor without needing help? She wasn’t sure - but the feeling was a pleasant one, nonetheless.   
  
She paused before the door that would take her outside - taking several deep breaths. “You can do this,” she whispered.  
  
And she pushed open the door.   
  
The wind almost ripped it from her hands, and she hugged the wall descending, afraid a gust would send her off-balance on the narrow, rail-less steps. The money was still clutched tight in her hand, paper slick against her gloved palm.   
  
It was hard going - as Alarik had predicted, and as she’d known it would be. Trapped by the narrow street, a canyon between looming edifices, the wind was fierce and brutal, and pellets of ice hammered her skin like grapeshot. She almost wished for a cloak, just to have something to pull over her face. Could she have asked to borrow Alarik’s coat? The thought had not occurred to her, and she didn’t want to go back now. She bent, squinted her eyes, and fought on.  
   
There was no one else out, no one else foolish or desperate enough to battle this storm, but at least that meant she could keep her head down without fear of collision. A trip that should have taken five minutes took three times that, and when she turned the corner, she saw no lamp for a shop, and feared she had misheard the directions, or turned at the wrong intersection, or the bakery, like the university, had closed due to the storm. Her temporary bravery might be all for naught.   
  
But she made out, finally, the sign, flapping madly in the wind:  _Bageri_ , above a crudely-painted loaf of bread - and there were lights on. She hesitated at the door; the inside was clean, and bright, and warm-looking, and she could smell yeast and sugar and - her heart leapt - chocolate, and see the rows of loaves and buns and pastries. It reminded her, somehow, of home.  
  
She didn’t belong here, either.  
  
But she couldn’t flee - not from here.  
  
And Alarik - who had come home cold and wet, whose crumpled riksdaler bill was clutched in her hand, who had taken her in without a word of complaint - was waiting for her.   
  
She pulled open the door, ducking through and quickly pulling it closed before the wind could grab it, as it had back at the boarding house.   
  
For a moment, there was a trembling cusp of silence.   
  
Then she heard the flurried rustle of skirts, the clip of boot heels, and the flustered voice of an older woman: “Oh, you poor dear, out in this weather dressed so, you must be half-frozen - Agne, quickly, a towel!”  
  
Before Elsa could protest, a thin scrap of cloth was being wrapped around her shoulders, and she caught flashes of grey curls beneath a stiff kerchief, worn hands and stubby fingers, arms that swelled with muscle. “There, now, that’s better,” the woman said, though the towel was so frayed and worn Elsa wasn’t sure it had done any good at all.   
  
Still she nodded and managed a choked “Thank you.”  
  
“Think nothing of it, dear. What can I get for you?”  
  
Elsa raised her head, finally, to find herself faced by two women - the stout, grey-haired one who had spoken, and another maybe a bit younger than Anna, with lank hair, dull eyes, and a dirty apron fallen from one shoulder.   
  
Elsa looked from one to the other, and finally addressed the old woman. “I… I need to buy enough food to last two people until Friday. With… with this.” She held out her hand, the black ink a sharp contrast to her pale gloves. “Please,” she added.  
  
The women look the proffered note. “This is all you’ve got, dear? Won’t buy much.”  
  
She didn’t know why she should feel embarrassed, but her cheeks flushed, and she cast her eyes down. “Yes. That’s… that’s all I have.”  
  
“Well… I’ll see what I can do.” There was clear doubt in the woman’s voice. “Until Friday, you said?”  
  
“Yes - until Friday.”  
  
The old woman nodded and went back around the counter to consider her wares. Elsa watched from near the door, tugging the towel off her shoulders and mostly succeeding in folding it into a square. She could feel the younger woman’s eyes watching her.   
  
“This will likely serve you best,” the old woman eventually said, pulling several round, dark loaves of rye from the shelf. She wrapped them quickly in waxed paper - “You should bring a basket, dear” - and handed Elsa several skilling. “Anything else I can do for you?”  
  
Elsa looked at the thin little coins in her hand. She bit her lip. “Would this be… would this be enough for… for one of the ones with chocolate? Just a… just a small one?”  
  
The old woman smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She shook her head. “No, dear - I’m sorry. The chocolate alone costs me more than that.”  
  
Again, Elsa felt her face flush. “Oh. I… I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I’ll -”  
  
“Mother?” It was the younger one, the first time she had spoken, her voice flat and toneless. “What about yesterday’s?”  
  
For a moment, Elsa saw anger in the old woman’s eyes, but she just clucked her tongue and said, “Yes, all right, Agne, go get two of yesterday’s chocolate croissants.”  
  
Agne handed them to Elsa in more waxed paper. “They’re my favorite, too,” she said. Her smile was warm, despite several missing teeth.   
  
“Thank you,” Elsa said. She had no money when she returned to Alarik’s room, but five loaves of bread and two chocolate croissants, and she felt another swell of pride at not dropping any of them, though she did have to put them down briefly to open the door at the top of the steps.   
  
Alarik had been out himself, but only briefly, to fill his pots and cup from the pump before it froze. But that was long done when she returned, and she found him sitting on the end of the bed, flipping idly through the novel she had been reading. When he saw what she was holding, he grinned. “She must have liked you. I would have been lucky to get three loaves for that much!”  
  
She smiled, but then said, “I… I didn’t bring back any money, though. They had chocolate croissants, and I didn’t have enough for the fresh ones, but they had some leftover, and -”  
  
“Elsa.” He had his hands raised, as if to put them on her shoulders, though of course he didn’t - he hadn’t touched her at all since that first day. “That’s fine. It’s food. And…” He looked away, hands falling. “And I’m glad you got them if they’ll make you… happy.”  
  
She couldn’t look at him then, either, but once more, she smiled.  
  
The storm continued unabated until evening. Alarik wrapped himself in blankets, still refusing to light a fire, and sat working at the desk, doggedly ignoring his own trembling. Elsa felt somewhat guilty that she was perfectly comfortable; she sat, as usual, on the bed, finishing the dreadful romance novel. It ended with maudlin happiness and, of course, the arrival of a child. Elsa wondered what had happened to the beautiful young woman’s original husband, still in the 1700s, but guessed she was not supposed to, as both the beautiful young woman and the author seemed to have forgotten he existed.   
  
Still, she sighed to close it - it had been surprisingly pleasant while it lasted.   
  
As the meager light began to fade from the window and the screaming winds calmed, Elsa voiced a sudden thought: “If all we have is bread… could we maybe toast it?”  
  
She suspected Alarik knew exactly why she had suggested it - but he sat very close to the newly-kindled fire, still wrapped in blankets, and slowly color returned to his face, to his fingers.   
  
“How was your book?” he asked as they ate.   
  
“It was… interesting?”  
  
He laughed. “I thought so too, from the little bit that I read.”  
  
“Did you read the part where she tries to convince everyone to choose a Plantagenet king instead of a Lancaster?”  
  
“No - but wait.” He leaned forward, smiling, eyes shining with firelight - or something else? “I’m a scientist, not an historian. Which kingdom is this?”  
  
“England,” she said. “I don’t know much about it myself, but in the book, they want King Richard removed because - actually, it might be best to start from the beginning?”  
  
“Please do,” he said quickly.  
  
How long did they sit there before the fire, eating toasted bread, Alarik’s laughter frequent and unfettered as she recounted the story down to every ridiculous detail, Jeanne d’Arc impersonations and all? Afterward, Elsa could not have said - but in that time, a warm happiness bubbled within her, such that she had never thought to feel again.   
  
“That is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard,” Alarik said when she was finished. “And possibly the most marvelous - and I’ve read Voltaire.”  
  
Now it was Elsa’s turn to laugh. “My thoughts exactly.”  
  
“I’ll have to see about getting more novels for you. I would selfishly enjoy hearing you recount them more often.”  
  
She sobered then - not quite a return to melancholy, but a drop nonetheless. “I… I should confess I rarely read novels, actually. Almost none since I… I used to read to Anna.” She looked down, to the crumbs on her plate, her hands folded in her lap.   
  
“Oh.” A pause, then: “I didn’t know.”  
  
She managed a smile, though her eyes could not quite meet his. “How could you? I was looking at it thinking… how much Anna would have loved it.”  
  
“Ah. Then I’m… I’m sorry, Elsa.”  
  
“It was a gift. And I’ve rarely gotten gifts. I appreciated it.”  
  
His smile was warm and wide. “You’re very welcome.” He gathered up their dinner things, brushing crumbs into the fire rather than washing the plate - to conserve water, she assumed. “Would you like one of your croissants?”  
  
“You can have one, too.”  
  
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “If we’re being honest tonight, I”ll confess that I’m not really very fond of chocolate.”  
  
He was still smiling, but she felt the weight of it - in her stomach, across her shoulders. She swallowed hard. “I… I spent the last of your money on something you don’t even like?”  
  
His eyes softened, so much that she had to look away. “It was a gift, Elsa - just like the book.”  
  
She shook her head. “No. I was being selfish - I wanted chocolate and… and I tried to justify it by buying two.”  
  
“Elsa -”  
  
She pushed up from her spot on the floor. She felt control slipping, and she was suddenly very, very tired. “I… I may… just try to get some sleep.”  
  
She lay silent but awake for quite some time - long enough to hear him sigh, and to dwell on the fact that she had, once more, ruined someone’s life.  
  
Maybe it was the weather, or the book making her think more of Anna than she usually allowed herself. Maybe she had simply been allotted her share of restful nights, and this was her penance for exceeding them.  
  
She was back in the palace atop the mountain, but something was wrong - someone had invaded her sanctuary, someone or some _thing_  - and it was looking for her. She could hear it, snuffling, searching breath; the skittering click of claw across ice, echoing through the corridors, and sometimes it seemed to move up, climbing the wall like a monstrous spider.   
  
She knew she had to try to escape - it wanted her to fight, to unleash her powers, but she wouldn’t, she  _couldn’t_. But none of the hallways led to where they were meant to go, and some of the doors would not open, and she didn’t know how she had gotten back here or how to get out again. She ran - but it ran faster.   
  
And there was a room with no way out. No way except the door through which she had come. And outside, she could hear it, scratching and scraping, looking for entry.   
  
She gulped for breath, searching frantically for somewhere, anywhere to hide. The window was boarded over, but there was just enough light to see the room - and with realization, her horror only grew.   
  
There was dusty and decay, the heavy odor of mildew and rot, but she knew the bed, the dollhouse, the dolls discarded in the corner.  
  
Anna’s room.  
  
A crack and a crash, and Elsa spun even as the creature launched itself at her, bristling fur and long legs, too many legs, and claws and gaping, drooling maw, and she cried out, threw out her hands, stumbled away and closed her eyes and heard the thing shriek in agony.   
  
Then there was only her own whimpering, panting breath.   
  
She opened her eyes.   
  
There was no creature impaled by the sharp spines of ice.  
  
The blue eyes were open, and imploring - and lifeless. Copper braids dangled, and blood steamed as it fell to the frozen floor.  
  
And Elsa screamed.  
  
“Elsa!  _Elsa!_ ”  
  
She drew breath to scream again, scrabbling away from hands that almost touched, ice spreading beneath her, legs and arms pushing her up and away until her head met the wall with a smarting thud. She stilled then, trembling and panting and clutching half-frozen sheets. Her bleary eyes finally made out the contours of the room - not Anna’s, thank heavens not Anna’s - the embers from the fire, and Alarik just barely illuminated by the meager light from the window.   
  
“Elsa,” he said again, and she shuddered. “It was a dream. Just a dream.”  
  
“Anna?” she whispered.  
  
“Is fine. Anna’s fine. It was just a dream.”  
  
She struggled for breath, wrapping her arms around her middle and holding tight. Finally, she nodded.  
  
He reached out, as if to touch, and she shied away. “No,” he murmured, reminding himself. He turned, then, scanning the dark room - and he went to the little box under the window, and came back to hold out one of the chocolate croissants. “Here.”  
  
She gave him a tentative smile, and took the croissant. He sat with her while she ate, while she felt the dream finally begin to dissipate, neither of them speaking. She thought of Anna, and of unexpected gifts: romance novels, and stale chocolate croissants, and her sister’s undeserved love.   
  
“Can you sleep?” Alarik asked when she was done.  
  
“I think so.” The blankets were damp and cold, but there was nothing to be done. “I… thank you.”  
  
He gave her a gentle smile. “Goodnight, Elsa.”


	5. Elsa & University

Elsa was doing better - and worse. And Alarik was at a loss.

The nightmares came every few nights, and he could see her terror, her desperation, but despite his own similar nighttime tortures - less frequent now, but far from extinct - he didn’t know how to help her. 

He had always placed his faith in books, evidence, results - until the frightened young queen of Arendelle had arrived, and suddenly the variables were beyond his control. He just wanted to help her. 

He wanted to protect her. To once, just once, not fail to do so. 

But he had no  _right_  to do so. What he needed to do was find a better place for her - safer, more secure, cleaner and neater. 

Until then, he instead took to visiting Mrs. Gustavsson’s bakery on the way home from work, in hopes they had stale chocolate croissants, and adding a few more drops of water to his ink, or blowing out the lights an hour earlier. Sometimes, he was lucky enough to find only Agne behind the counter in the bakery. 

She had asked him, the first time he went in, “For the pretty young lady with gloves but no cloak?”

Alarik felt his face redden, but he nodded. “Elsa. Her name is Elsa.”

“A pretty name, too,” Agne said, and Alarik was glad his hair covered his ears as the flush moved north. But she might have seen anyway, when she leaned close to whisper, “Don’t tell Mother.” And she slipped another croissant in before tying the paper closed. 

“Thank you,” Alarik said, with all the warmth he could infuse into a murmur. 

And when Elsa whimpered and fought in the night, pulling him from work or from sleep, he lit a lamp, called her name until she found her way to consciousness - never touching - and hold out a croissant. She always took it, and usually managed a shaky smile.

It was more than enough. 

They rarely spoke during those times. He did try - an awkward, uncomfortable, “Do you want to talk about it?”

But she shook her head. “No. But… thank you.”

He didn’t know what to do. 

She didn’t complain, even when circumstances kept him late, running home with bread under one arm, whatever he could find that was cheap and filling under the other. She never complained about the food, the long days spent cooped up in cold silence, or about anything at all. he almost believed she feared what would happen if she dared to question the circumstances of her life - and considering what had happened when she had tried flee the role into which she had been born, such fears were understandable. 

He understood far better than he was yet prepared to let her know. But for now, it seemed cruel to ask her to share that burden - he had agreed to take hers, with no understanding that she would do the same with his. And as January dragged on, and he saw some tiny, almost incidental improvements, it seemed quiet had been the best course of action. 

The result of her frightened flight, the first day he had left her, seemed to be a reluctance to go out at all without immediate permission, no matter how many times he said it was not necessary, or however many piles of skilling coins he tried to leave for her use. So he took to coming home for lunch when he could - two days a week, at most three - to make sure she had a midday meal, and never mind how enticing was the enormous, roaring fires of the university reading rooms. She smiled now, usually, to see him, and that was a kind of warmth, too. 

But better still, after her brave trip out, alone, into the blizzard, she sometimes asked - offered? - to do the same again. But she only did so if he was there when she left, and when she came back. He certainly wasn’t going to argue - it was frigid outside, the streets slick with ice - besides it being a sign he took as hopeful. 

It had been a long time since he’d been responsible for someone, and never for someone as fragile and brittle as Elsa. But even he could see the pride in her eyes when she managed things for herself - or even better, for both of them. He  _liked_ seeing it. 

 _She has inclination to push herself to exhaustion,_  her father had once written.  _She believes there is control in perfection, despite the impossibility of the latter._

In the years since -  maybe just in the time from July to December, a scant few months - some part of her had cracked and fallen to fragments. If a trip to the shops might begin to glue her back together, if she could see herself accomplished in buying bread or a bottle of milk, then it became his job to encourage her. If she wanted perfection, let her be perfectly  _free_. 

By mid-January, she even sometimes returned with clear pride at finding a better deal than he had anticipated: “I know you said chicken was on special, but the  herring was even better, for how much you get at the same price.”

And he wondered if he would ever stop being amazing by some of the things she did, completely unconsciously. “You worked that out on the spot?”

She looked to the side, but allowed herself to smile. “I’ve always been good at arithmetic. Poor Anna hated it.”

The herring lasted three days, where the chicken might have gotten them through two meals, and no more. He didn’t have to water down his ink that week, and there was enough left to buy her two small squares of chocolate on his way home. 

“For helping me,” he said, self-conscious as he gave it to her. 

“What?”

“The herring. I always just buy what’s most obviously cheap. But that… I had a little left over.”

“Really?” She took the chocolate - but instead of eating it, she placed it very carefully, still in its tissue-paper wrapping, on her tiny pile of personal belongings. There was half a chocolate croissant there too, and he hoped it meant she was getting enough to eat. 

“Really. Thank you.”

Again, she wouldn’t look at him, but her smile was almost sunny. “I’m glad. Especially because… herring’s my favorite.”

“Even better,” he said, then added, “I like herring, though cod’s always been  _my_ favorite.”

She went to the market for him the next Saturday, and was gone long enough that he grew concerned - but how could he hope to find her in all the crowded stalls and people? If she needed help, would she have the courage to ask?

But the memory sent a chill through him, deeper than the frigid air: she  _had_  asked for help, before, and had trusted blindly an utter stranger. She said she hadn’t, and of course she had the means to protect herself, and it had turned out fine, but he couldn’t let things happen to her as they had once happened to him. The circumstances had not been ideal, but still, he had chosen this life. Elsa had been forced into it. 

And he would never forget Anna’s letter, the last line before she signed her name:  _All that I know to ask is that you find her a place of safety, where I cannot._

He watched out the window - the one he already thought of as  _Elsa’s_  window - and hated his inability to do as Anna had asked. This was not a place of safety - this was poverty and rot and despair. Elsa deserved a warm, dry room of her own, good food served on china plates, security and love. 

None of those things could exist, could survive, in the world Alarik had chosen for himself. 

He had to find her somewhere else to go. 

Especially since  _he_ had been here, already, for over a year - and, dutifully paying off past debts as he was, there was no way to avoid a trail, receipts and notes and bank letterheads, that would eventually be followed. He was six months, perhaps a year, from paying all he owed. He thought - hoped - that it would be easier to disappear then; they would have to ask questions, risk getting some in return, and as long as he wasn’t an outright threat - which he had no intention of being, whatever certain others believed - it might be deemed safer to leave him be. And then, perhaps things could improve: more money. Secure lodging intended for the long-term. Wood for the fire and a pantry for food and shelves for his books. 

 _There_  would be, for Elsa, what Anna had asked. 

But if his debts took longer than anticipated to be paid? If they found him before then?

She had been here for a month, and every day had been a threat to her. It was time to do as Anna had asked.

She finally came back flushed and happy, oblivious, it seemed, to the almost two hours she had been gone, and she looked so unburdened that he swallowed the desire to demand explanation. He got it anyway - she had a paper-wrapped parcel, and unfolded it, smiling, almost  _grinning_ , to show several small cuts of fish. “Cod!” she said. “The man cutting fillets said usually the pet-meat man buys the ends, but he’d sell me half a pound. And I had enough left for an onion, and the boy gave me a potato for free!”

She was so proud of herself. And he was astonished, again, not just at a free potato, but at her clear knack for thinking quickly and spending well. It didn’t seem likely she had been taught it - it wouldn’t be part of training for a king’s daughter any more than it had been for a duke’s son. And she had shown a talent, already, far superior to his own.

And so he grinned back, sharing her thrill, and pleased himself that she had not only remembered what he liked, but found a way to get it. Cod-ends for day-old chocolate croissants: it was a trade he would take.

_But it’s still time to send her away._

He didn’t say anything. Not yet. They ate cod and onion and potato, and he slept, in his pile of blankets on the floor, for once with a full stomach. 

* * *

He considered his colleagues at the university carefully, trying to gauge them in a manner never necessary before: who could be trusted with Elsa?

Not those who, like him, were still early in their careers - though most came from wealthy families, with no lack of money whatever the university paid them, Elsa would be a trifle to their likes, a temporary adventure until they grew bored or were expected to marry some socially-approved girl of highborn status - not as highborn as Elsa, but that was now, of course, a moot point. Alarik was well aware of the scorn most of them felt for him - they had no idea of his own aristocratic birth, and would remain ignorant of it; his research brought enough risk without inviting more. 

And, too, there was the concern of her magic - of who could be trusted to know about it. He was one of few in his field - physical science - who found the investigation of what many believed to be a dying phenomenon worthwhile. The Tsandskiyi retreated further and further from modern civilization, and considering how they were still viewed and treated, was it really any surprise? Alarik had gotten to work with a small population in the remote lands between Austria and Russia, but no others had ever been willing to speak to him. The tiny human population with magic - like Elsa - were rare, often living in careful solitude if they survived to adulthood, and almost as distrustful of those who expressed interest in their strange abilities as the rest of the world was of them. They were born in uneven waves, but still, finding them in his present circumstances was all but impossible. Since earning his doctorate, he had expanded his research, of necessity, examining the historical appearances of what was called magic - but even more, he considered cellular properties in more accessible subjects; plants, mostly. 

Shards cells had appeared groundbreaking, attention-getting research but not so very long after, he and everyone else in his academic circles had yet to find an real value to or use for their discovery. He had earned his doctorate, and had, since, done whatever he could just to keep himself afloat. The older academics, he thought, felt something akin to pity, but the younger ones, with their comfortable allowances and sizable donations made as they presented themselves for doctoral consideration, looked at him with derision. Because who was he to them? A poor scholar, Chaucer’s Clerk, who had managed a momentary glory and so was afforded a reluctant place among them. 

If he was fair, maybe they were not  _all_ like that - but he could see none of them agreeing to give Elsa a safe place to live, a place where her nightmares might subside and her smiles come from more than buying cast-off ends of fish. A place where her magic would not be her defining characteristic - and her chains. 

His oldest colleagues were equally unlikely. They generally fell into two categories: those who doddered, monotonous, through the same material they had been teaching for decades, and those who had turned to zealots, paranoid and mad-eyed. And why would any of them, most of whom had adult children and grandchildren, agree to take on Elsa? She couldn’t pay for the lodging, and neither could Alarik. Anna might be able to help, but that would put both her and Elsa in greater danger. 

That left him with those ten or twenty years into their careers. Some of them, too, had families of their own, but just as many did not. He also wondered, briefly, if Elsa might make a good nanny or tutor, but the magic might be an issue. Still, he broached the topic after dinner one night in early February:

“How do you feel about children?”

She was sitting on her usual perch by the window, watching night fall over the city, holding her cup of tea from dinner, though it must have long since grown cold. She placed it on the sill before turning to look at him with her eyebrows raised. “Children?”

“Do you… like them?”

For a long moment, she just stared at him. “I… haven’t spent much time around them.”

He pushed his hair back from his eyes, mostly just to have something to do. “No, of course not.”

“Why?”

“I’m… trying to, uh… find a better place for you. Better than here. I thought maybe…”

“Oh.” She looked down at her hands, folded now across her lap. Her silk gloves were torn and stained, but still she kept them on. “I’m not safe to be around children.”

“You’re not…” But he swallowed back the rest.

Still, she shook her head. “I’m not.” She was still staring down at her hands.

* * *

A few days later, around midday, he was called out of a lecture by a very nervous-looking boy he didn’t know: “Dr. Andresson wants to see you, sir.”

Dr. Andresson was the head of the physical sciences department - Alarik had spoken to him perhaps twice in all the time he had been here. Alarik shared  “office” space with three others in a tiny, windowless room; Dr. Andresson had a long, modern office, a secretary in the anteroom. That secretary looked curiously flushed as he looked up at Alarik and said, “Dr. Geatland? They’re just in there.”

He didn’t have any idea what to expect on the other side of the heavy door, but it certainly would not have been Elsa. She was on the straight-backed chair in the corner, her hands locked tightly together - and the room was noticeably chilly despite the fire. She glanced up and quickly down again, but even that was enough that he saw the fear in her eyes. 

Dr. Andresson cleared his throat, drawing Alarik’s attention. “This young woman was asking for you in the porter’s office, Dr. Geatland.” Andresson was a heavily-built man in late middle age, confident of his own position in life - and Alarik’s much lower one. “Do you know her?”

Elsa looked like a reprimanded child, staring at her feet, still and silent. 

“Yes,” Alarik said. “She’s… she’s my neighbor.”

Dr. Andresson nodded slowly, and steepled his hands before his face. “Mm. I see. That is the extent of your… ‘relationship’?”

Alarik felt the flush in his cheeks. “Yes, sir.”

“And what, then, is her business here today?” Asked as if Elsa could not give an answer herself, or was too far below his notice to be bothered with. Alarik felt a flare of irritation - at Dr. Andresson, but also at Elsa.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“You don’t know.”

“No, sir.”

The silence that followed was long and painful. Elsa was gnawing at her lower lip, brows knit, while Dr. Andresson watched her. When he cleared his throat once more, Elsa started, but Alarik didn’t think Dr. Andresson noticed the frost that bloomed on her skirt, beneath her torn gloves. She herself noticed, of course - her eyes widened, just slightly, and she quickly adjusted the folds of material to hide it. 

“I suppose that this time,” Dr. Andresson said, “we will call it a warning. But I would advise you, Dr. Geatland, that if you intend to remain in academia, you would do well to pick your…  _neighbors_ … carefully.”

The flush had risen to his ears. “Yes, sir.”

“I will have the porter escort her out. You may go.”

* * *

“What were you  _thinking?_ ”

Alarik had tried to tamp down his anger, his frustration - there was no reason it should be directed at her. And he might have managed it if the porter wasn’t such a damned gossip, so that word spread quickly and everyone was jesting him about “neighbors” all afternoon. Even more irritating, he hadn’t been able to come up with any better explanation or excuse for her presence. 

But as he should have learned from the last time, she did not respond well to anger. She crossed her arms - tightly - and looked up at him with a face the portrait of a queen. “I was bringing you lunch.”

“What?  _Why?_ ”

“Why  _not?_  You walk home for lunch several days a week. I was trying to… to return the favor.”

“You can’t do that!”

There was more ice in her voice than he’d ever seen from her hands: “ _Why. Not?_ ”

He rubbed a hand over his face. How much more of this would there be - things he had never anticipated, things he had no way of knowing he needed to both consider and convey? “Women can’t… they’re not allowed on university property. Here, anyway.”

For a moment, she just stared at him - a rare occurrence. Two bright little spots of red grew on her cheeks. “That’s… that’s barbaric.”

He turned away from her, finally, to look at nothing in particular - the shadowy hint of a blank wall, all but lost to the onset of night - outside the window beside her. The anger and frustration, finally, were dissipating… leaving him at a loss. “I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”

There was too much  _she_  didn’t know - too much to keep up with. And he was tired, so very tired. Tired of trying to get by, tired of living in squalor, tired of struggling, tired of stress and uncertainty and most of all…

Most of all, he was tired of _her._  

He had always been terrible at hiding his emotions, and something of this must have shown on his face - she started to speak, but he shook his head, balling his hands to fists at his side. “I’m… I’m sorry, I… I think I could… use some air.”

He almost ran - desperate, suddenly, to be gone before she had a chance to respond. Heedless - and coatless - into the frigid cold, hands tucked deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched against more than just the bitter wind. 

What would happen if he just never went back? He had done it before. Just kept walking. Refused to look back. 

Icy streets, dirty snow piled and frozen against dirtier stucco, someone nearby shouting, the sounds of a meaty slap and a wailing child. A dirty, ugly city in a dirty, ugly world. Anywhere he went, it was more of the same. 

He had never asked for this. For  _any_  of this. But most of all, he had never asked for Elsa. For broken, struggling, frightened Elsa. 

No more than she had asked for him. Broken, struggling, frightened Alarik.

He stopped, shivering, beneath a broken street lamp. The word was gray - the buildings, the sky, the snow. In his mind he saw her: blankets pooled around her waist, holding a croissant, using both hands because of how they trembled. Her eyes finally meeting his, just briefly, and the tentative attempt at a smile. 

But he had to stop thinking of her as helpless.  _He_  was the problem. And she had not asked to be here. She had not asked to be dumped into a wholly alien world - one where she was now trying so hard to understand and grow. Her father had written of her struggles, and she struggled still, but… 

 _Cod!_  And the way that she had smiled. 

He slumped against the lamp post. He wanted to cry. 

Instead, he walked home again. And she turned to him, and he let the words come as they might: “I’m sorry. I’m… God, I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m an idiot. The whole administration and the rules are… are ridiculous. The whole thing is stupid, you’re right, you’re  _completely_  right, I had never even thought about it, but… I guess… what I’m trying to… to say is… thank you. And… and I really appreciate… all that you’ve done for me. I… I know it’s hard for you.”

A moment of silence - but he could have sworn, after, that he saw a ghost of a smile cross her face. “Apology accepted. And… you’re welcome.”

He  _did_ smile. He didn’t mind. And when she cocked an eyebrow and looked away, shaking her head, it only got wider. 

The real problem, he realized later, waiting for sleep: not where he was going to send her… but what sending her away might do to him. 


End file.
